


Horn Signals (Symphony no. 31)

by thespiritscalling



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mortal, Alternate Universe - Orchestra, F/F, Hijinks & Shenanigans, M/M, Nile Freeman-centric, extreme Found Family vibes, vague author projection bc i too want a found family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-12 19:54:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29764761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thespiritscalling/pseuds/thespiritscalling
Summary: If only the call for auditions had added this one very important caveat: "alongside regular programming, musician also must be ready to be integrated into a new, slightly odd family, with whom musician will be participating in something that may or may not be minor government upheaval and other general shenanigans."Would Nile have passed up the opportunity then? Hard to say. But there's no denying that this has been the most exciting ensemble she's been a part of in a long, long time.(In which she is a fresh face in a small city's struggling orchestra, and a funding battle might just be the thing she needs to find her place.)
Relationships: Andy | Andromache of Scythia/Quynh | Noriko, Nile Freeman & Everyone, background Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolo di Genova
Comments: 16
Kudos: 82





	1. September

**Author's Note:**

> I'm back on my bullshit! Looks like I've got a solid thing going where I post One Fic A Year, but, well. This came to me as I was falling asleep and I wrote all of it in a fit in a week and a half. Despite playing multiple instruments, I am apparently legally unable to write about main characters playing anything but the horn. 
> 
> I took extreme artistic liberty on so much of this, so if you're bothered by inaccuracies in either orchestra process or municipal governance, I'm already sorry. 
> 
> title is from [Haydn's Symphony 31](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ar4LVTO7rnQ), which is nicknamed "Hornsignal" because of the strong horn feature.

Six years of music school, and Nile’s talents are being used very effectively to count sixty-four bars of rest.

She keeps the beat in mind and flips the page to the second movement. **TACET,** it says. Fucking great.

Dr. Prince cuts off the cellos and launches into a quick explanation of what she wants from them. Something about warm sound and _deep in the strings_ and Nile’s absolutely not listening, even though she probably should be, because it’s her first day in this shitty city’s Philharmonic and it’s important to make a good first impression.

Second-chair horn, who sits on her left and looks perpetually a tired and a little sad, screws the top off his water bottle and offers it to her.

“I’ve got my own, thanks,” she says, motioning to the bottle next to her foot.

Second-chair smiles a bit. “It’s not water.”

She stares at him. “It’s eleven AM.”

“And we’ve got three notes and a tacet that’ll take us to lunch. Trust me, you’re going to want it.”

Nile declines, politely, because he’s a big white dude offering her alcohol at her professional job, and that’s not something she needs on her record right off the bat. Starts counting again; they’re somewhere in the middle of that streak of black with a 24 written over it, sandwiched between two other streaks of black with 20 over them, and maybe by the time they get to one of the rehearsal markings she’ll know where they are again.

Five minutes pass. They’re now in the next smear of 20 bars of rest. Second-chair leans over again. “It’s not always like this. Promise.”

She raises an eyebrow at him.

“Last year we did a cinema series that featured us a lot. It was pretty cool and we’ll probably do something like it again. But it just so happens that you’re here at the start of the most boring program of the season.”

“Lucky me,” Nile says.

Second-chair snorts, then extends his hand. “Booker.”

“Nile.”

“Happy to have you here,” Booker says, and it sounds mostly genuine. Nile notes a soft accent, deep eyes, and an air of existential exhaustion, and maybe it’s the way she recognizes that exhaustion that gives her pause. Makes her briefly re-evaluate this tall, day-drinking sectionmate into someone who could be a friend, somewhere along the line. Eventually.

He doesn’t offer her any more mystery alcohol, which is nice. She resolves to bring coffee to their next rehearsal.

They’re on break at one o’clock and Booker leaves to go to the washroom. Nile kicks her feet onto his chair and starts going through her phone to kill time.

“Hey,” says a new voice. “This Booker’s?”

She looks up and barely stops herself from gaping. Concertmaster and living legend Andromache is standing next to her, holding Booker’s water bottle in one hand. Nile was sure she’d meet Andy exactly once at her audition, and then maybe never again – the woman had glared all the way through it, though maybe that was just her face – but here she is, eyebrow cocked, waiting.

“Uh,” says Nile. “Yeah, it is. Wait, but-”

Andy unscrews the top and starts chugging.

“It’s not water,” Nile finishes weakly.

Andy makes a gesture that might mean something to someone who has met her more than once and stops with a light _ahh._ “I know, kid. Would’ve been surprised if it was.” She motions to Nile’s bottle. “That’s water?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool. Give it here.”

Nile picks it up and hands it over, curious and half-expecting Andy to start drinking from it, too. Andy balances Booker’s bottle on the chair next to Nile’s ankles and unscrews the top of Nile’s bottle, then pours half her water into Booker’s alcohol. She seems far too satisfied as she hands Nile’s water back to her. “Don’t tell.”

“I won’t?”

Andy winks at her, claps her shoulder, takes a few steps away. Turns back. “Oh, by the way, your audition was good.”

She steps down from the brass platform and mingles with the violas.

“What the fuck,” Nile whispers to herself.

Booker returns a few minutes later. He drinks, blinks, and stares at his bottle, then at Nile. She holds her hands up.

“Goddamn it, Andy,” he mutters. He flips Andy off as she gets comfortable in her seat again, and she responds in kind, and that’s the end of that.  
  


* * *

  
They fall into a sort of routine over the next few rehearsals: during a quiet part, Booker will tip his fake water in Nile’s direction, she will refuse and sip her coffee instead, and they will sit in silent solidarity as they count through their rests. More often than not, Andy will come by during break and drink half of Booker’s liquor, and sometimes Booker will catch her as she loosens his stand or shuffles his music. Nile comes to understand it as a sort of sibling relationship, the kind that gets into slapfights in the back of a van on a long car trip – it reminds her of her own relationship with her brother. It’s a surprising relief to know that Andy, concertmaster and living legend, is just as human – and just as much a disaster – as the rest of them.

Sometimes they’re joined by the principal viola and Booker’s roommate, a kind man called Joe who converses with Booker in French and occasionally gives Nile snacks; other times they’re joined by Andy’s wife Quỳnh, who is a percussionist and very proud of her ability to effectively deafen the orchestra with her various smashing instruments.

Nile starts to think that maybe the music won’t be the only think she enjoys about this job.  
  


* * *

  
The thing about this orchestra is that it’s small. Almost pitifully so, if she’s being honest, basically a nothing when pitted against world-renowned symphonies in places like Berlin or Vienna or New York. Nine or ten violins, six violas, two lonely oboes. The horn section is her and Booker and a slightly crusty old man as first chair. It’s smaller than her orchestra in university, but it’s almost more familiar that way. Nile starts to put names to faces. One day she notices that she can look out over the orchestra from the brass platform and name each one of the people below her.

The theater isn’t much better; the seats are old, the stage is scratched, the curtains are heavy and – if she’s being honest – _exceedingly_ ugly. There’s plenty of backstage space, though, and there are enough stands and chairs from them all. Nile affectionately calls the place _shitty_. She’s finally stopped tripping over the weird, elevated lip at the stage door. If that means exaggeratedly stepping through every doorframe ever, now, well. So be it.  
  


* * *

  
Their first concert of the season goes about as well as anyone can expect: mistakes likely indiscernible to the inexperienced ear, a few products of nerves. Booker glances at Nile after she slips up on an entrance and nudges his foot against hers in a way that probably means _don’t worry about it_.

It’s a matinée, so they’re done at five, and as they pack up Booker slides over to Nile again. “Few of us are going out for dinner and drinks,” he says. “You can too.”

“First drink of the day, huh?” she jokes. He rolls his eyes. “Who’s _us?”_

“Oh, you know,” he says vaguely. Waves a hand and wanders away again in the direction of his stuff.

Which is a non-answer, but something in Nile’s chest says _fuck it,_ so she yells over her shoulder. “Sure, I’ll come.”

Booker pitches a thumbs-up without looking back.

Somehow, this leads to her still in the lobby at six o’clock, overheating in the jacket she’d thrown on half an hour ago, sitting on her horn case despite the scepter of all her university teachers telling her it’s a bad idea. Andy is there, too, pacing; she’s not wearing a jacket and Nile is starting to wonder if she ever will. The sky out the window promises rain, if not sloggy, damp snow.

“So,” says Nile. “Why are we still here?”

Andy scans the lobby. Other than the custodial staff, who have uprooted them multiple times to vacuum, the others are almost suspiciously absent. “Quỳnh’s helping with the percussion strike,” she says. “Booker’s probably harassing Joe. Who is, in turn, harassing the stage manager of the Guard –” she starts to tick off fingers – “as he does after every concert, many rehearsals, and sometimes when we come to performances that aren’t ours and he manages to worm his way backstage.”

Nile lets this all compute, comparing what she’s seen of Joe to what Andy is describing. Before the concert, Joe had offered her a truffle, and if she sticks her tongue behind her teeth she can still taste traces of it. “Joe? Harassing someone? Doesn’t seem the type.”

Andy’s mouth twists into a wry smile, and Nile can see the fondness bleeding through. “They’re in love.”

“Oh.”

“Everyone knows it, except, apparently, them.”

_“Oh.”_

“Since Nicky has to be the last one out, they always take a while. You’re gonna get used to it.” Andy slips her backpack off her shoulder, digs around in it, and unearths two granola bars. She tosses one to Nile. “Consider this pre-dinner. Nicky’ll apologize for keeping us, but honestly? It’ll only get worse after they finally get their shit together, so. Take what you can get.”

Nile is suddenly acutely aware that the last time she ate was six hours ago, and so she unwraps the granola bar with what might have been more force than necessary. Andy’s piercing stare is on her again. She squares her shoulders and resolutely doesn’t let it bother her.

Laughter echoes from the backstage hallway. Booker and Quỳnh emerge; Booker’s carrying his case, his jacket, his bag, and Quỳnh’s bag all at once and he looks vaguely like a pack mule. Nile doesn’t bother hiding her grin.

Quỳnh greets Andy with a light kiss. “The idiots are on their way.”

Booker sets down his plethora of bags and pulls on his jacket. His sigh is long-suffering. “I thought maybe the rush of the concert might spur things on, but. _Hélas._ Fools.” He nudges Quỳnh’s bag in her direction. She pointedly ignores it.

The hallway makes more sound, this time quick footsteps, and thus appears Joe, treading the line between speedwalking and all-out running. His viola case is slung over one shoulder and he’s attempting – somewhat unsuccessfully – to button his jacket as he heads toward them. _“Livret,_ can I ride with you?”

“Why don’t you ride with sexy eyes?” Booker asks. Nile hears Andy snort.

Joe sniffs. “That does not deserve a response. He’s meeting us at the restaurant.”

Booker screws his face into an _I-don’t-know_ , but Joe claps him on the shoulder anyway. “Thank you. Very kind. Nile, you’re joining us?”

He’s pleasantly surprised, which in turn pleasantly surprises Nile. “Yeah. Booker invited me.”

“Fantastic. You are always welcome.” He glances at Andy and Quỳnh. “Going, yes?”

“Meet you there,” says Andy. She picks up Quỳnh’s bag, picks up Quỳnh’s hand, and the pair of them exit through the front.

 _“Sexy eyes,”_ Joe mutters reproachfully. “Blasphemy. I do not say such things.”

Booker points at him. His keys are wrapped around his finger, so the whole motion jingles. “I wouldn’t say it if it weren’t true. Nile, you need a ride?”

“Yeah, maybe,” Nile says, even though it’s not a maybe, it’s a complete yes. “Took the train.”

“Yuck,” says Booker. “We’ll get you home at the end of the night, too.”

“You’ll be drunk,” she points out. It doesn’t seem like a stretch assumption. Booker picks up his case and shoves open the first door with his hip; Joe takes the second and Nile walks through them feeling like a celebrity. It’s raining, and she revels in the chill. An hour standing in the lobby with her jacket on has left her sick with heat.

Booker comes up behind her. Hits the beep button on his keys and scans the street until a raindrop falls directly into his eye. “We’ll figure it out.”

The car is old, battered, and incredibly small, and from the backseat she has to laugh as Booker barely fits in his own vehicle. “Don’t look at me like that,” he scolds, not even looking at her. “It was cheap.”

They’re not out of place at the restaurant, really, except they kind of are. It turns out (to no one’s surprise) that symphony attire is the kind of formal that stands out in the restaurant-bar they end up at. Nile didn’t catch the name on the way in; Joe had spotted Andy’s car and dragged her and Booker in immediately to avoid the rain.

Quỳnh’s hand shoots up from her booth the moment they stumble inside. She’s the most extravagant of them all, in a dress that seems to float with her when she walks, sleeves that have no right showing off her muscle the way they do. What’s almost worse is Andy in a suit – the cause of three separate _holy shit, women_ crises during the concert – and Nile decides, firmly, that it’s time to step up her game and start intentionally causing those crises for other young gays.

Not that the men are doing much better, anyway. Nile is surrounded by unfairly attractive people and she’s still trying to figure out how she got here.

Booker pushes Nile into the booth first so he can sit on the end. Joe slides in the other side, greeting Andy with a knock of their shoulders. He looks across to Nile with a smile that bleeds warmth. “So. Nile. What’s the opinion on the orchestra, now that you’ve been with us for a bit?’

Nile thinks on it. “It’s good, I guess,” she says. “As far as jobs go, not bad. Prince seems nice. The music is… okay.” Booker snorts. “Okay, it’s, like, mediocre. But it’ll get better!”

“That’s what I like to hear,” Joe says, leaning back as far as he can in the booth. “I will admit that we stay cautious for the first program. But each section does get its place.”

“Easy for you to say,” says Quỳnh. “You’re a string.”

“Your wife is the most important person in the orchestra, you are exempt from this conversation,” Booker points out. Quỳnh sticks her tongue out at him.

The door to the restaurant opens and shuts again, and without even looking Nile knows who it is. Can tell by the look on Joe’s face, the way his frame goes soft, how he scoots nearly onto Andy’s lap in order to politely leave too much space at the booth. Andy shoves him back onto his designated spot.

Nile knows Nicky the way two people who take the same bus might know each other eventually. They’re technically coworkers – the entire orchestra had gotten the _this is the Guard crew, this is Nicky the stage manager, he organizes everything, don’t harass him_ – but that’s the most of it, really. Sometimes he drops by over break to discuss set-up logistics with Prince, and, _oh,_ now that she thinks about it, there were some pretty charged interactions between him and Joe, and in her head some things slot neatly into place. Nicky slips into the booth with a gentle, bright smile. “Good evening, friends. Hello, Nile.”

 _You know my name,_ Nile thinks. “Hey.”

“You are a horn, yes? With Booker?”

Booker traces a finger in a circle across the table. “Misery loves company.” Andy barks out a real laugh; the rest of them are grinning widely, a little lazily, edges soft. There’s something incredibly warm about it all, and for the first time since leaving Chicago, Nile thinks, _maybe there’s something here._

Then Booker makes a frankly dad-like groan and stands up. “First round’s on me. Just drinks. Get your own food.”

“How kind,” teases Quỳnh. “How much must I bully you until you buy me dinner?”

“Uh-uh. _Non._ You already made me carry your shit. Have a date night with your wife, _mon dieu._ ”

He heads toward the bar. Quỳnh and Andy lean forward conspiratorially. “Don’t tell him,” says Quỳnh, “but getting other people to buy our dinners is part of date night. It is also a competition. And I’m winning.”

An hour into whatever this mess of dinner-and-drinks-and-general-chaos, Nile knows a few more things:

  * Andy and Quỳnh are disgustingly in love, and the more drinks Andy consumes the louder she gets about that particular fact.
  * Joe, despite not drinking, seems to be receiving giddiness by osmosis of sitting next to Andy. All this really means is belly-laughter, more affectionate shoulder-checks, and obvious heart eyes. Like, _really_ obvious heart eyes. Nile could move to Canada and she’d still be able to see them.
  * All the people at this table are at least bilingual, and Nile thinks she’s heard four? maybe five? different languages tossed around already.
  * God help them all, this is actually _fun._



By his fifth turn out to the bar, Booker’s starting to lose control of his length, and he kicks Nile at least three times trying to get out of the booth. Nile slides as far as she can into Quỳnh without making it awkward.

Quỳnh drops a hand on her shoulder. “You and us,” she says, far too sober for whatever’s coming next, “we are sisters, now.”

“Huh,” says Nile. “Okay.” She’s happy with it, though, and Quỳnh grins at her. “Is this a thing that happens with you guys? Fast-forwarding straight through the _acquaintances_ part of the friendship?”

Nicky catches her eye and nods, somewhat exaggeratedly. “This has happened. It will likely continue to happen. It is endless.”

“So where did it start?”

“Well,” says Quỳnh, “Andromache and I were the first to the orchestra. We had already met and married, and when we each were hired on, it seemed serendipitous. What better place to play than one where I can listen to my wife do what she does best?”

“Joe and I met during the principals’ meeting,” Andy continues. “Since I’m supposed to-” she belches – “give them all bowing instructions, or some shit, we’ve started doing actual meetings between us and the cellos and the basses.”

Booker returns and throws a set of glasses down to the table. His top _three_ shirt buttons are loose – nobody knows when that last one got popped – and he scans the table with careful eyes. “You guys are bleeding me dry.”

“Thank you, _em trai_ ,” says Quỳnh, “I will carry my own bags until November.”

“Book looked sad and lonely, so we bullied him into joining us,” says Andy. “Isn’t that right?”

“Unfortunately,” Booker says into his glass. “Been looking for a way to escape for years.” Someone beneath the table kicks him, and his eyes crinkle into kindness.

Nile stretches out the conspiracy board in her head and connects them all with little imaginary strings. “Okay. Makes sense. What about Nicky?”

“I had gotten incorrect numbers on my first day as manager,” Nicky says, “and poor Andy was left without a seat. She came and hunted me down personally to, ah, passionately inform me about my mistake. It never happened again, of course. And enough of her reminders eventually led us to familiarity. It is hard not to grow fond of the music you hear every week, as well as the people who create such beautiful things.” He smiles at Joe, who flushes, and they maintain eye contact for far longer than is necessary.

A variety of significant glances are exchanged across the table. Nile senses a bet, or maybe just collective commiseration in the presence of, well, _that._

Eight thirty turns to nine o’clock. Some more things Nile has learned:

  * Andy and Quỳnh have an indeterminate number of pets of unknown species. They talk about _children_ in a way that betrays animals, and many names that could be individuals but also Nicknames of other names, and it’s always _possible_ that a hamster could do as much damage to a sofa as a cat (or, god forbid, a feral racoon) but it’s kind of impossible to tell.
  * Booker and Andy have been secretly engaged in a drinking contest. A lot of things make sense after that particular revelation, namely, why the _fuck_ he keeps going to get more when they’re clearly both halfway to liver failure.
  * Quỳnh is not above climbing over Andy, Joe, and Nicky to get out of the booth despite both Nile and Booker offering to slide out like normal people. She is also not above climbing over the three of them to get back in.
  * Nicky is hilarious, and she would like to be patched into his headset one day just to have his wry comments in her ear. She learns far more about a few unsavory members of the orchestra than she ever wanted to, as well as a few new veiled insults from him and Joe alike. The f-hole in the cello is apparently a very good place for Keane to stick his –



“All right, everyone,” declares Andy, “I’m calling it. If we stay too much longer the kids might get into the pantry again. We are _not_ doing a 2017 Four Seasons repeat.”

Everyone looks appropriately solemn, which only makes Nile curious. “2017 Four Seasons?”

“A story for another time,” Quỳnh says, eyes haunted. “We had to get new flooring. It was expensive.”

This _still_ doesn’t give Nile any clues as to what animals the “kids” actually are, but she’s about ready to give up for the night and hope that somewhere further down the line things get clearer.

Some shuffling, key-exchanging, and casual stumbling later, the six of them are standing in the night’s final drizzle, backlit by the orange light from the restaurant window. Quỳnh pours Andy into the passenger seat of their car. Nicky gestures at the shadowed corner of the parking lot. “I’m over there.”

Ever the lovestruck gentleman, Joe says, “Let me walk you. I’ll be back in a minute, friends.”

They disappear onto the asphalt. Booker heaves a great sigh, his large shoulders slumping with it. “Nile,” he says. His accent is noticeably stronger.

“Booker,” says Nile.

“If I have to watch them dance around each other for another week I might commit fratricide.”

“Wouldn’t blame you.”

“Thank you for joining me in my loneliness.”

She tucks her hands in her jacket pockets, bops him in the arm with her elbow. “Anytime.”

They are contemplating sending a search party out across the parking lot when Joe returns. Even then. It’s a close thing.


	2. October, part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which the crew discovers some logistical arts funding issues and pretends to be sardines, just for funsies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I namedrop 2020 in this one so like. please imagine this fic is set in an infinitely gentler 2020. also sorry for everything.

The Monday following the concert series is a day off. Nile calls her mom, does laundry, plays _Among Us_ with Dizzy and Jay, intentionally does not change out of her sweatpants. An Advil had solved the vague hangover she’d woken up with on Saturday, but it did nothing to dim the rightness that had emerged, nestling happily in her stomach. She feels like a firebug in her own apartment, lighting the room. Her crappy ramen lunches have never tasted so good.

Her mom sends her a picture of her little brother with his foot trapped between the rails of their home staircase. She misses Chicago, misses it immensely. When she calls her brother, she laughs at him for five minutes until he hangs up on her. They call again a few minutes later and don’t get off the phone until it’s dark.

There are glow stars across her bedroom ceiling, planted by an elaborate effort from Jay and Dizzy as she was moving into this apartment. She counts them until she falls asleep.  
  


* * *

  
It’s the middle of October, a Tuesday, and Nile is contemplating practicing versus housework when her phone buzzes _._ It’s Booker: _Are you up for visitors?_

 _Yeah I guess,_ she responds, and immediately her door is thumping.

It makes her jump, and for a moment she thinks it’s unrelated and possibly suspicious, until a voice from the other side of the door says, _“Nile, it’s Joe.”_

She wrenches the door open with all the force of her residual adrenaline. “For God’s sake, _what.”_

“Emergency of the professional kind,” Joe says, sweeping past her into the living room.

 _“You_ couldn’t have called?”

“I don’t have your number.”

“So you asked Book to check with me, instead of _getting my number yourself.”_

Joe waves his hand. _“Pah._ This warrants a face-to-face discussion, anyway. I asked Andy to come. She’ll bring Quỳnh and snacks.” He kicks off his shoes and rests on Nile’s chair in a casual, almost sprawling fashion.

Nile slowly, cautiously approaches. There’s a disconnect between his proclamation of _emergency_ and his immediate appearance at her door and the way he sits now. “So what’s wrong?”

“I’ll fill you in on the history before Andy and Quỳnh arrive, and we can go from there,” he says.

This seems like it has the potential to be long-winded, so. “I’ll make tea.”

The history, as told over two mugs of Cream of Earl Gray and a few rambling interjections, goes like this:

The year is 2015. The city council gets a flip-flop and a series of new people are introduced: most importantly, one young upstart councillor with a lot of dreams and a lot of money and a whole lot of arrogance.

_(“This already doesn’t sound like a good start,” says Nile. Joe tips his mug at her.)_

This man’s name is Merrick, and he is one of those people who either patently ignores all the studies of arts being beneficial to society or just hates the idea of people having fun, because he is very set on the idea that the Guard Theatre should be ~~torn down~~ relocated and/or its programs slashed to add money to… something else. It changes through the years; 2016’s main focus was housing, 2017’s infrastructure, so on, so forth. Yes, the theatre is in a hopping downtown centre that focuses on arts. Why should that matter? There are people who need _help_ and _real jobs_ (ouch), never mind all the affordable housing startups and programs that have been actively pumping along and successfully accomplishing everything he’s arguing for.

_(Joe’s phone lets out a little doodle-beep. He picks it up and glances at the screen, and for a second Nile thinks she’s looking at someone completely different: his face splits open and liquid adoration falls out of his smile, the level of which she’s never seen before –_

_And then it’s gone, he puts his phone down, and jumps right back into his possibly-Powerpoint-accompanied speech about how much of a dick Merrick is._

_Nile doesn’t know what to think about it, so she just… doesn’t think about it.)_

Now it’s 2020, and Merrick’s at it again, except there have been a few other city council changes in the past year and it’s looking like he might gain traction. Pair this with low rates of admittance for the Guard’s past month of shows and it’s starting to look like the symphony program – and potentially the theatre as a whole – could be in danger. And in its place, Merrick is proposing a research company. Private, expensive, and likely without so much of the wonder that the theatre currently brings.

_(“Fuck,” Nile says, because she’s come to sort of love this place.)_

“Luckily,” says Joe, “Andy has a plan.”

Andy doesn’t really have a plan.

She and Quỳnh knock much more politely, compliment Nile’s sparsely decorated, too-small apartment, and spread out on the floor with a still-frozen shrimp ring and two bags of Cool Ranch Doritos. Andy also produces a whiteboard from behind her back, maybe (it most certainly was _not_ in view when Nile answered the door) and leans it up against the wall.

“Okay,” she says, after Joe tells her that he’s given Nile the run-down. “Ideas, please.”

“We could assassinate him,” Quỳnh says serenely.

Andy is halfway through writing **ASSASSINATE** when Joe leans forward and snatches the whiteboard marker out of her hand. “We _cannot_ do that,” he says.

“Buzzkill,” says Andy, but she tugs her sleeve across her palm and goes to wipe it off.

“What exactly is our problem?” asks Nile. “Like, is it funding? Do we need to get more people to attend our concerts? Or is it exclusively a political asshole thing?”

Quỳnh plucks a frozen shrimp from the ring and eats it, tail and all. “A little bit of both,” she says. “It would be far easier to convince the council we deserve to stick around if we were actually generating a solid amount of income.”

“What about a smear campaign?” Nile suggests. “The guy sounds like an asshole on most fronts, not gonna lie.”

“Oh, he is,” says Joe. His phone dings again; the expression doesn’t come back but there’s something decidedly soft around his eyes as he announces, “Booker is on his way.”

 _Booker wasn’t the source of the love face,_ Nile thinks, _it was definitely something else,_ and she files that away on her mental conspiracy board.

Andy writes **SMEAR CAMPAIGN** on the whiteboard beneath the half-erased assassination attempt. “I don’t know how to do one of those.”

“I think it’s a team effort,” says Nile.

“What if we get him very sick?” asks Quỳnh, still with the utmost innocence. This, also, is shot down immediately by Joe. “You are no fun, Yusuf.”

Joe crosses his arms. “I am only looking out for us all, legally speaking. Smear campaign’s good, though. I must say there’s something very alluring about fucking up his entire career. Without getting arrested.”

“It would be unfortunate if we got arrested,” Andy agrees. She puts down her marker and plucks two Doritos from the bag, sandwiching a shrimp between them and stuffing it all in her mouth.

Nile gets up to make them more tea. She thinks she may have spotted Joe dunking a chip in his tea and is somewhat convinced that she is surrounded by heathens.

Booker welcomes himself into the apartment with little fanfare and stands in the doorway, staring at the whiteboard. “ _Ass ass smear campaign?_ Andy, I thought this was about council funding, not, ah, literal shit.”

“First of all, no,” Andy says, as the rest of them crack up. “Second of all, Merrick is a piece of shit, so all of this is still technically relevant.”

“Oh, good. I haven’t missed anything.”

Nile ignores the way he dumps half his flask into his tea, is only slightly concerned for his potential alcoholism, and they continue to plan.

She orders pizza. The ensuing fight over who’s going to pay for the pizza takes up more vocal power than all other conversation has thus far.

(It turns into crew movie night. They watch _Amadeus_ because Joe thinks it’s funny to rile Andy up about historical classical music things, and he’s absolutely right. They have to pause the movie so Andy can shout out her frustrations about Salieri. Booker films it and sends it to Nile, and she treasures it.)  
  


* * *

  
Prince hands out music for next week’s pops concert. There are a lot of weird rhythms. Nile regrets everything.  
  


* * *

  
Andy finds them at break and simply says, “Stick around after we’re done.”

“I _could_ be busy,” Booker says as she disappears back into small crowd of people milling about. “I could be unavailable. She doesn’t know that I’m not.”

“I think she’s banking on your lack of friends other than us,” Nile says.

“You are unfortunately correct on that count.” Booker reaches up to adjust his music and the stand pitches down to its shortest state, throwing the music everywhere with a massive clatter. “Ah, fuck, _fils de putain,_ I don’t know how she does it.”

Nile, who watched Andy secretly unscrew his stand again in their two-second interaction, says nothing and helpfully rescues his sheets before they land on his floor-spit towel.

“I thought you guys were supposed to wear black all the time,” Nile says. She and Nicky stand in the main backstage hallway, a concrete thing that feels kind of like an apocalypse bunker, as Andy and Company take a longer time to show up.

Nicky wears an orange t-shirt that says **TAPE GOD**. For a moment, Nile thinks it’s a command _to_ tape God, then wonders if _tape_ means _record_ or _put a piece of tape onto_ , until she remembers that she’s looking at someone who likely spent his formative years next to theatre kids. He picks at his shirt with a small smirk. “Only on important days. Aside from that… my college roommate was very fond of giving me custom shirts regarding my status as technician. This one came from a rather harrowing production of _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_ in which each set piece broke at least three times in one week.”

“Sounds tense,” Nile agrees.

“Ah, it was all right. I emerged from the week a new man.” He gestures to his shirt as though it explains everything.

A stagehand approaches with a question, so Nile sticks her hands in her pockets and leans back against the wall, carefully exiting conversation range. They haven’t spoken about the whole Merrick-funding-debacle in a while, and she’s getting vibes from the rest of the crew that this might be an extension on that. But it could be any variety of other things – an invitation to Andy and Quỳnh’s third wedding, a new stray musician they’ve picked up over the course of the day, some sort of personal emergency. Maybe Andy just really wants the company.

This is not the case. A few minutes later, Joe appears at the end of the hallway – she knows this because Nicky lights up as he looks over her shoulder – and yells, “Andy wants you to unlock storage three.”

“I see, then,” says Nicky, “I am kept around only because I have the keys. I am here to be used.”

“You are much more than your keys, _habibi,”_ Joe says, and then he frowns, mouth half-open, and does what Nile considers to be _running away from his problems, ‘problems’ being_ ‘ _accidentally petnaming someone he’s been harboring a crush on’._ She blinks after him as he disappears.

Nicky also watches down the vacated corridor, a slight pink melting across his cheeks. He jangles his keys with a good-natured sigh. “Shall we?”

Storage Three is a glorified closet, and there is seven of them.

“Everyone,” says Andy, “this is Copley, the Arts Director here at the Guard.” She motions toward a man in a fancy-looking button-up who Nile has seen maybe twice in her past two months of this job. She knows his name from the general required thank-yous at the end of each concert. This is the first time she can put a face to the name.

To his credit, Copley looks pretty comfortable with being dragged inside a glorified closet by a rag-tag group of rogue musicians. “Good to meet you all,” he says. “Andromache has informed me that you all intend to do something about our predicament.”

“Hold on,” says Joe, leaning against a stack of chairs that rattle ominously. “Isn’t this the dude who backed Merrick’s proposals for three years? Why would he help us now?” He looks at Copley with a bit of venom. “Why would you help us now?”

Copley shifts a little on his feet. “Merrick can be persuasive when he desires,” he says, “and it’s only recently that he’s showed his hand on his intentions behind this lot. For all he talks about jobs and infrastructure – all of which are admittedly noble desires that have so far swung the council in his favor – the proposed replacement of the Guard is actually a laboratory he is a major partner of. This is, for the most part, a profit grab.” He frowns. “I could understand his attempts to better the city. Personal gain, however, is not something I can endorse in good conscience.”

Joe seems placated for now. “Do _you_ have a plan that doesn’t involve murder?”

“Murder?” asks Copley, taken aback.

“Ignore him,” says Andy, “we got pissed and started brainstorming.” No one goes to correct her on the _got pissed_ point; perhaps it’s better that Copley thinks they only think of murder while drunk. “So far the best we’ve got is some sort of discrediting. But we’d need dirt.”

“And that’s where I come in, I presume,” Copley says.

“Out of all of us, I’d say you’re the one most easily schmooze-able,” says Booker. “Is that a word? You know, able to get in with the politicians and such.”

Copley laughs at Booker, smiles at the rest of them. “I am capable of schmooze, yes.”

“Great!” declares Quỳnh, clapping her hands together. “You can be useful!”

Andy whips out her phone and starts typing. “Okay. My thought is… when’s the next public council meeting?”

“November seventh,” says Nicky.

“November seventh,” Andy repeats. “We have until then to think of a phase one.”

Nile raises her eyebrows. “We’re phasing this?”

“Complicated problems require complicated solutions,” replies Andy, easy as rain.

Nile’s phone vibrates. So does everyone else’s, simultaneously, and Nile guesses it’s something to do with a groupchat. Or a group email chain, because she’s doubtful about Andy’s technological prowess, and she can’t deny that an email chain would be hilarious. Annoying, maybe, but hilarious nonetheless.

“I wasn’t aware you had my phone number,” says Copley.

Andy eyebrowses at him and does not betray her secrets. “She asked Prince,” Nicky says. Andy reaches behind her, finds an abandoned dime on the stack of platforms she’s sitting on, and chucks it at him. He ducks away and subsequently elbows Quỳnh and steps on Nile’s foot. The coin bounces harmlessly off the door and rolls underneath the platforms.

“If we’re sticking with legality,” says Joe, “we’re going to need real exposé. Otherwise he can and will sue us.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” promises Copley. “There are a lot of public files I can start with. Council minutes, project proposals… if I can, perhaps I can connect a few more to selfish ends.”

“The whole man is a selfish end,” Joe mutters.

“If you need help, Mr. Copley,” says Nicky, “I would be happy to assist.”

Joe agrees, and so does Nile. Together, the seven of them form a task force: Project Expose Merrick And Give The Guard Its Funding Back (So We Can Hopefully All Keep Our Jobs).

“Not a bad name,” muses Joe.

Nicky nods. “I like it.”

They smile at each other, almost blindingly. Andy buries her face in her hands.  
  


* * *

  
Someone at the train station trips over Nile’s horn case. (Completely unnecessarily, too, because there was _plenty of space on the platform, asshole.)_ Somehow it knocks one of the keys out of alignment.

“New horn,” Booker comments at the next rehearsal.

“Rental,” says Nile. “I had to take the old lady in for repairs.” She plays a few test notes on the rental and makes a face. “I miss her already.”

Booker snorts. “I don’t. She smells.”

“Don’t you talk about my horn like that.”

The old lady does smell, and she will admit it to people that are not Booker. Nile had bought her on discount after getting into music school; she’d been sitting in her high school band teacher’s closet for years, collecting brassy bacteria and generally being a doorstop. But she plays beautifully, could _almost_ be considered an antique, and is the pride of all of Nile’s work.

The rental’s keys are slightly further apart, and her hand cramps twice.

“I take it back,” Booker says, after she shakes out her cramp and accidentally whacks him in the arm. “I will pray for her safe return.”  
  


* * *

**  
Project Expose Merrick And Give The Guard Its Funding Back (So We Can Hopefully All Keep Our Jobs)**

Copley: I think I might have something.

Andy: Something we can work with?

Copley: I will get back to you on that.

Copley: https://merrick.enterprise.com

Copley: This is the main idea.

Nile: this website has his name in it why have people not used it to do expose before

Copley: Unlisted.

Nile: extremely shady!

Andy: That’s already something. We should meet again soon. Make some copies.

Joe: Physical copies? Are we spies? Should we put them in a manila folder with a TOP SECRET stamp across the front?

Booker: I am questioning the idea of printing off a website, boss, but it’s up to you

Andy: Consider it insurance, in case Merrick decides to take it down at some point.

Joe: We are spies. Amazing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> stagehand 1: where is our sm we need him for something  
> stagehand 2: i just saw him packing six people into storage 3 like it was a clown car  
> stagehand 1: father has abandoned us :(


	3. October, part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> two lovely autumn days in which our heroes have a Pretty Good Time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one is 5% plot and 95% shenanigans and I think that's beautiful. also I project my asexuality onto nile for .2 seconds because what are pov characters for if not projecting

Nile is in the car on the way back from the repair shop, bored as all hell and about to get lost in a downward spiral, so she calls Andy.

_“Yeah,”_ says Andy, her voice coming out too loud from the car’s hands-off speakers. Nile dials it down with a curse.

“That’s one way to answer the phone,” she says. “I thought you were, like, ultra professional when it came to things like this.”

_“I have call display. If you were a professional call, you’d be Copley. Or a string of numbers.”_

“So you _do_ have my number saved under a legitimate contact,” Nile says. She painfully flashes back to all the times her apartment’s been invaded because none of these people like to use their phones, ever.

_“Shut up,”_ Andy says, amused. _“You need something?”_

Maybe it’s time to return the favor and do some invading of her own. “Well, no. Maybe. Where are you-” she’s cut off by a roaring sound on the other side of the line, followed by a woman’s voice shouting something unintelligible.

_“Hold on,”_ says Andy. Her voice gets quieter, away from the phone. _“I hear that again and I will rip your tongue out, understand me? One more look at her and you’re gone from this establishment.”_

Another voice floats out quietly. _“Thank you, my love. Though I’m sure I could have torn their tongues out myself. I do like the taste.”_ It’s Quỳnh, and of course they’d be together, Nile realizes. _“Oh, you’re busy.”_

_“It’s Nile,”_ Andy tells her.

_“Hello, Nile! How are you?”_

“Doing good,” Nile says, grinning. “Whose tongues are we ripping out?”

_“Leery assholes,”_ says Andy, as Quỳnh says, _“Many people’s. Quite literally, in this case.”_

Nile pauses. “Did I call in the middle of an unsanctioned murder session?”

They both laugh. The sound fills up the car, and Nile – at a stoplight – has to laugh with it. It’s involuntary and beautiful. _“Unfortunately not,”_ says Andy. _“We have a stock of pictures of people we hate. Quỳnh uses them as target practice.”_

_“A very fine pursuit,”_ Quỳnh sniffs. _“I am a fantastic archer.”_

“And the people at the range are just… okay with this?”

_“I own the archery gym,”_ says Quỳnh.

“Of course you do. You mind if I join?”

_“’Course not,”_ Andy says. _“You ever shot a bow?”_

This is where Nile ends up, three hours later, standing at one edge of the blue-felt floor at _Force Multiplied Archery + Shooting Range,_ arm shaking as she holds the drawstring next to her cheek.

“Very good,” Quỳnh praises. “Now, I would like you to aim for the left ear.”

Nile squints, closes one eye, aims as much as she can, and releases the arrow. There’s a quiet _thump_ as it embeds itself into the styrofoam target across the floor, somewhere in the vicinity of Ronald Reagan’s nose.

“God, that’s satisfying,” says Andy. “You’re doing good.” She’s been steadily ramming away at the target next to Nile’s; the arrow fletching is red and she’s punched them into the shape of a heart. She presents it with a slight flourish to Quỳnh, who kisses her soundly.

Nile picks up another arrow and tries a quick draw. This one lands in Reagan’s chin.

“You know,” she says, “I get the appeal.”

“Relaxing, isn’t it?” Andy shifts a grin at her, a little feral along the edges. She and Quỳnh are both in tank tops, and Nile’s been switching between archery focus and _Error 404: Muscles_ for the past little while. 

Quỳnh, for obligatory safety reasons, punches the _bows down_ warning light on the side of the gym, waits for a few seconds, and then hops across the floor to reach the targets. “You did a good job on Shitty President, Nile,” she shouts. “We’ll need to print new flats soon.”

Nile laces her fingers together and hooks her hands over her head. The stretch pops a few vertebrae and sends bands of satisfaction across her stomach. Shooting was the kind of distraction she’d needed; the day had been slowly careening towards a cloying loneliness before this, and now the world has transformed into something a little lighter, a little warmer. She checks the time: almost dinner. Her stomach says the same.

Andy glances at her as she passes, a set of collected bows hanging off her forearm. “Got evening plans?”

“I was gonna eat dinner and watch Netflix,” says Nile. “That count as plans?”

“If you want them to,” Andy says. She starts handing Nile arrows, so Nile follows her to the stock room and waits for her to take them out of her hands again. “Quỳnh and I thought about fast food and the art walk downtown. You can come, if you want.”

“That sounds like a date. I don’t want to intrude.”

“Want to bring someone else? Make it a double date or whatever?” Andy plucks the arrows from her hands, wipes them off with a damp rag, and replaces them each in designated bins. She pauses, turns around, forehead crinkled at Nile. _“Do_ you date?”

“Uh,” says Nile, which about sums it up.

“Consider it a family outing,” Andy decides. “Unless you prefer your Netflix. Which is also fine.”

Nile holds her hands up. “Never said that. I’m gonna drop my horn at home first and then I’m down.”

“We’ll pick you up.”

Andy is… a very aggressive driver. But not even in a tailgating sort of way, it’s just that she views everyone else on the road as an enemy, and Nile isn’t sure whether to laugh at her or hold onto the oh-shit handle and pray that the Five Guys is just around the corner.

“Oh, motherfucker,” Andy growls at the red car that cuts them off, “I could kick your ass for that, shitstain. See how you like it.”

“Have you been to the art walk yet, Nile?” Quỳnh asks from the front seat, ignoring Andy in a practiced way that can only come from years of marriage.

Nile shakes her head. “Been meaning to, though.”

_“I don’t trust you,”_ whispers Andy, staring at a van a few lanes over.

Quỳnh tracks her gaze to the van and makes a face that means she agrees with its inherent untrustworthiness. “Patience, darling. We’re almost there.”

It’s also possible that Andy was just hungry, because there are nowhere near as many curses as she takes them downtown, casually jamming fries in her mouth as she drives.

They reach the parking lot for the art walk just as the sun is shedding gold on everything in sight: the world is aflame, turning beige buildings into brilliant orange, and all around them the pedestrians look like individual angels. This is what God wanted when He created light, Nile thinks, this overwhelming beauty. The artist inside her brain is going wild with colour theory.

Andy tries to pay for Nile’s ticket and Nile is very close to wrestling her in front of the ticket booth. Quỳnh seems, as she should be, delighted about it all. Nile wins the stare-off by an exceedingly slim margin; she’s halfway convinced Andy gave up because it wasn’t worth the effort. Still, she pays her own way with a wicked sort of triumph.

The art walk is down a few cordoned-off streets between packed restaurants, places with patios still full despite the evening’s oncoming chill, bars with music pouring out open doors. It feels like a festival: for a moment, Nile is back in Chicago on 57th, and if she turns around it’ll be her brother hanging back to look at something further – but it’s Andy and Quỳnh.

Disappointment and contentment spiral in a confusing tumble inside her chest.

“Oh, look at that, my love,” Quỳnh says, gesturing towards a small setup surrounded by canvases. The paintings depict a forest with incredible depth, deep greens accented with red-capped mushrooms and the hidden orange of an animal, all invigorated by the light of the golden hour. She latches onto Andy’s arm and pulls her sideways, eager to examine it closer.

Nile wanders a few paces, thinks about returning to them, then continues wandering. A mural on the side of one of the beige buildings catches her eye; bright colours and thick lines and pops of magenta and pale blue, all culminating to form a victorious portrait of Maya Angelou. Nile’s in front of it before she even knows she’s walking. And further beyond that mural is a set of sculptures, three abstract, intertwining structures made of metal and stone, some intricate display of connection that Nile can feel herself yearning for without even understanding it completely. She sidesteps a group of laughing teenagers and posts herself lightly against a wall. The world smells like herbs and crisp air.

Maybe it’s the art. Maybe it’s the atmosphere. Something inside her is swelling, joyously, something that feels like adrenaline and correctness and love for the whole entire world, all its tangles and colours and people and places and feelings.

She exhales. Watches a few people as they pass: a tall woman with an afro and brilliant purple eyeshadow; a person in combat boots and a long pleated skirt; a dad with a child trotting along after him, pointing at different things and spouting unintelligible excitement. _Same, kid._

Laughter – Quỳnh, cackling – cuts through it all easily. Nile looks up and sees, with some surprise, Quỳnh and Joe, standing next to an installation made of weaved fibres. Joe looks cross in the _best friend is teasing him_ kind of way, and Quỳnh looks like she’s just eaten a particularly delicious dinner.

Nile makes her way over. “Hey, Joe.”

“Nile!” Joe says. “How are you?”

“In my element,” says Nile. “Other element aside from music, I guess. Art.”

“It is beautiful, isn’t it?” agrees Joe. “The art walk is always one of the things I look forward to here.”

“It’s annual? Now I _have_ to stay.” Nile grins at Joe, and he grins back, and a moment of art-loving solidarity passes between them.

His phone beeps. “Excuse me,” he says, already pulling it from his pocket. Nile watches him from the corner of her eye as he taps a response with quick, stumbling thumbs. Funny, she thought he’d be a hunt-and-peck typer.

Quỳnh is touching the inside of her elbow. “There’s a donut truck down the street. Would you like something?”

Drawn by the donuts, Nile bids a quick _see you later_ to Joe and follows Quỳnh and Andy. She makes note of art she wants to take a better look at on their way back, lays out mental bookmarks along the street. The sun dips behind the buildings, then catches her eye directly. She blinks away sun spots as they smear across her vision.

Andy’s already in line as she catches up to them. “What do you want?”

Nile considers fighting to pay for her own donut too – financial politeness was one of the things drilled into her childhood – but, like Andy, she decides it’s probably not worth it. “Do they have crullers?”

“I think so,” says Andy, as Quỳnh squeals and says, _“Party donuts!”_

“Yeah, get me a cruller,” Nile says. Andy snaps a _got it_ at her, steps up to order, is loaded with donuts a few minutes later. Quỳnh, apparently, has gone all-out with her sweet things; next to her party donut she’s holding a maple-dip and a lightly frosted, and Andy’s got a paper bag of beignets tucked haphazardly under her arm.

The donut is somewhere between _pretty good_ and _really good,_ in that sort of place most desserts that are not high-end or utter crap reside. It’s a satisfying, sweet way to end the day. Nile sucks glaze from her thumb and returns her attention to the street.

“Well, would you look who it is,” says Andy, somewhere to Nile’s left. “We gonna find Book here, too?”

Nile spins, and, oh, there’s Nicky, jeans and a hoodie and his cell phone in one hand, utterly delighted. “I think if Booker were here, we would know it,” he says. “Have you been enjoying yourselves? Is there good art?”

“Fantastic art,” says Quỳnh. “Interesting pictures. Interesting people, too.”

“A good place for a date,” Andy says, too loudly. Quỳnh laces their fingers together.

“Oh?” Nicky says. There’s a miniscule smirk to his tone. Nile squints at him; something seems just a little off.

Andy waves her arm in the vague direction of _the entire rest of the street._ “I think you should take a look. Where, Nile – by the water sculptures?” Nile nods, thinking of Joe and his quick thumbs.

“Personally, I thought they were life forces,” Quỳnh supplies. “But yes.”

“Okay,” says Nicky. He nods, slowly but without condescension, and points in the same general direction Andy waved in. “That way?”

“Go,” says Andy, bluntly. “See you at work.”

He bids them each a kind, individual goodbye and disappears into the art-lined street.

“Jesus,” Andy says, “I’m going to run out of patience with those two, I swear to all that is holy.”

“Have faith, dear heart,” says Quỳnh. “They will see each other eventually.”

Andy sneaks a beignet from the bag. She’s trying to be secretive about it but Nile sees it anyway.  
  


* * *

  
The next post-rehearsal meeting of Project Expose Merrick And Give The Guard Its Funding Back (So We Can Hopefully All Keep Our Jobs) is, thankfully, _not_ in Storage Three.

It’s actually not at the Guard at all. Nile follows Andy’s angry-driving to Joe and Booker’s place, a squished townhouse on the west side with pots of ivy hanging off the front windows. She takes it all in with a nostalgic sort of wonder: it doesn’t get old, seeing a friend’s house for the first time, being able to take in all the individual eccentricities and the way they express themselves in a space that is truly their own. The mortifying ordeal of being known, maybe, but it’s so incredible to know other people.

Waiting for Andy and Quỳnh to finish up (as _senior orchestra members,_ or something, they’re instrumental – ha – in the set-down, or they’re meeting with Prince, or something, Nile’s not totally sure) had given the boys a head start. Quỳnh had pointed out Nicky’s car across the street. “We’re late.”

“We’re not late,” Andy had said, locking their car, “we’re arriving in style.” She has a spare key, so she lets them in. Nile takes off her boots by the door, listening to the cranked-volume sound of indeterminate sports from another room, fledglings of a potential sports-related argument, the clink of kitchen utensils.

Barefoot, Andy prowls into the house, and from where Nile can see, she stands in the center of the floor and shouts, “Okay, everybody, listen up!”

There’s a stream of curses in French, but also in Italian, and then in English. “Holy shit,” says Joe, “Andy, you’re a fucking cat.”

“Not my fault you’re yelling at soccer,” says Andy.

Nile ascends the stairs to the main level in time to hear Booker mutter, _“Football, chat inculte.”_

“Yeah, fuck you too. We’re here. That’s all.”

Quỳnh lightly knocks Nile to the side so she can drape herself artfully over her wife. “Oh, Nicky, you’re cooking. I expected takeout.”

Nicky, alone in the kitchen, waves a wooden spoon at her. “I had the place at my disposal. Why not make a meal for you all?”

“Truly,” says Joe, “he is the best of us.”

“Thank you.” Nicky tips a short bow at him. “I will be done in half an hour. Until then, please do not kill each other over the football.”

“I promise nothing,” says Booker. He pulls in his feet to let Quỳnh through, then pushes them back out quickly with the intent of tripping Andy.

Andy hops over them neatly. “You tried, asshole.”

Nile also picks her way through the sea of legs and sits on the floor, leaning against the arm of the couch Andy and Quỳnh have commandeered. Next to her, Booker has stretched out again, and across from them all, Joe has claimed the old, ugly armchair as his own. Conveniently, they’re not within reaching distance of each other. It’s probably better that way; Nile has the feeling that neither of them are above actively fistfighting over the soccer. Beneath and surrounding the TV are shelves, each one full of a mess of books, upright and stacked and falling over, bookended with a few potted succulents and something that looks more like a sculpture than a bookend. Some of the books look old, with dusty brown leather covers. Another section near the floor looks like it might be trashy romance.

“Would anybody like a drink?” calls Nicky from the kitchen. Nile takes this as an opportunity to get up again, see if she can help at all, even if it’s _stir a pot to give Nicky’s arms a break._ The others give various responses to the drink call, and Joe gets up too, wandering to the kitchen next to Nile with his eyes still stuck on the tv. Nile hangs off to the side as Joe moves through the kitchen – almost in practiced tandem with Nicky, who sways to accompany him as though they’ve done it millions of times before – and collects glasses, cracking a soda for someone and pouring water for someone else. It’s done in moments.

He takes the few paces back to the living area, hands out the drinks, and leaves Nile and Nicky alone in the kitchen.

“What can I get you?” asks Nicky, without looking up from the pot.

“I can get myself some water,” says Nile. “Do you need any help?”

“Do you want to shred some carrots?”

“Sure.” She gets a glass from the cupboard she’d just seen Joe produce glasses from, fills it with water, and leans against the fridge as Nicky collects a bowl from a different cupboard and then a grate from a drawer. He’s familiar in this kitchen, she notes; perhaps the crew’s penchant for bursting into her apartment at times unknown also extends to the others.

She finds it comfortable, working alongside Nicky. The carrots are getting tossed into a salad, and Nicky’s got a pot of boiling tomato-vegetable something on the stove and something bread-y in the oven. It all smells amazing. As a backdrop to the occasional cheer (and matching groan) from the living room, it turns out that when Nicky’s busy, he hums. Nothing that Nile’s ever heard before, but he has a nice voice. She doesn’t comment on it, afraid that he’ll stop if he knows she can hear.

But he doesn’t. He catches her watching him and gives her a secret, indulgent smile, and turns back to the saucepan. Tastes it quickly and shuts off the heat. “I think we are almost ready. Could you collect the troublemakers?”

Nile hangs off the doorway, as far as she can manage, and shouts, _“Shut it down, y’all!”_

It gets almost the same amount of reaction as Andy’s earlier jump-scare, and she is vindicated.

From there, it’s a mass exodus into the dining “room” (also a few steps away, in the corner between the kitchen and the stairs, open on two sides) where there’s another small fuss over drinks and seating and most things that can be fussed about. Nicky produces serving bowls from more cupboards unknown. It’s all a well-oiled machine, and Nile finds she fits neatly into it, an inherent part of the waltz they do to find their spots. She ducks under Nicky’s arm as he lifts a bowl over her head, watches Booker shuffle to the side without seeing him approach, sees how Quỳnh pours two glasses of wine for herself and Andy as Andy collects two napkins for them both. Six of them are overcrowding this little area meant for two, but it’s warm and it _means_ something.

And the food is mind-blowingly delicious, so.

Andy lets out a little moan as she tests each dish. Nile is inclined to agree; the vegetable stew-shaped dish is seasoned perfectly, and the bread is homemade garlic bread, and her salad has the perfect dressing, and it’s all just so, so good. They talk about everything and nothing as they eat too much.

“We do not have a sweet finish, I’m sorry,” says Joe, after they’ve all agreed to stop. There’s still food – Nile’s belatedly wondering about the leftovers, if there’ll be enough for her to steal.

“We have Oreos,” says Booker.

“We have Oreos,” Joe rescinds. “If that counts.”

“Of _course_ it counts,” says Quỳnh. She’s the first one to grab one, and she immediately challenges Booker to the forehead-cookie game.

When the doorbell rings, that’s how Copley finds them: Booker, with an Oreo stubbornly refusing to leave the crook of his eye, making faces at the ceiling, as the rest of the crew rowdily cheer him on.

(Quỳnh demonstrated. It took her fifteen seconds to get the cookie into her mouth. Nile is starting to think she’s just good at everything, and is appropriately scared of her.)

“Good evening,” says Copley, stifling a laugh, going for professional and failing as Booker’s cookie slides down to his cheek. Everyone else bids him some kind of hello. Booker mutters something too quiet to even parse the language of, but it’s clearly an insult to the Oreo.

He finally manages to snag the cookie after three minutes of weird expressions. The applause in the room is thunderous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't actually know what a party donut is I just thought it sounded cool


	4. November

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Websites are printed out. Morally deficit council members are cordially roasted. Cakes are re-decorated. It's a pretty good time.

Copley smacks a pile of papers down on the table. Joe takes a look, starts to laugh, and doesn’t stop.

_TOP_ _SECRET_ is stamped in red across the front of the file folder, with cartoon-like cinematic accuracy.

“You were right, Joe,” Nicky muses. “We _are_ spies.”

_“Thank_ you. I knew it.”

Andy reaches across the table and flips the file open. The first page is, naturally, a direct printed copy of the website’s main page.

“You really did it,” says Booker. “You printed a website.”

Copley shrugs slightly. “I was asked. I did copy down as much as I could find in a more reasonable format, too, it should be a few pages in.”

“You found this much?” asks Andy. She holds up the stack: there’s at least fifteen pages, and from the look of it they’re all double-sided. “How much of it is useful?”

“Quite a bit of it, I think,” Copley says. He motions for the stack, and when Andy hands it over, he starts to lay out the sheets one by one on the table. Eventually he gets to two that he stops and taps. “Here. These two. Look at them and tell me what you see.”

Nile leans over and scans them both. “They’re vision statements,” she says. “Near identical. One’s an update of the other?”

“Almost,” says Copley. “This one belongs to the website I sent you all. This other one-” he pats the paper with a neat _thud_ on the table, more force than they expect – “is the vision statement for DRMX Labs, a company that was shut down two years ago due to ethics code violations.”

Booker is nodding. “I remember that. So, what, Merrick is reappropriating the ideas of this other lab?”

“I did some digging,” Copley continues. “It turns out that bankrolling DRMX was not only just a few corrupt politicians and uber-rich neoliberal benefactors, but also one Steven Merrick.”

_“Ohh,”_ says Andy, and it turns into a wicked sort of laughter, a grin spreading across her face. Quỳnh mirrors her expression; Nile is reminded a bit of a pair of sharks, protective and eager to fight. “Copley, you son of a bitch, you’ve done it.”

“Not without help,” says Copley.

“Oh?”

“I barely did anything,” Booker says. “You sent me something to get into, and I got into it. Not much of a research-based experience.”

“But helpful nonetheless,” Copley says, and the kitchen is once again overcome with victory for Booker. “Anyway, the gist of the rest of this is that Merrick, instead of letting his money – and his project – go to waste over these violations, has started his own company. We have a public website, printed here,” he waves his hand around a small sheaf of papers on the left, “and a private one. They are near identical, except for the project descriptions. I can only assume that those who wish to fund Merrick’s private research are sent the private link, inaccessible to the general public without a good amount of digging. And who needs to dig when everything up front looks as tight as it does?”

“Someone with a vendetta, that’s who,” says Andy.

“Exactly. Now, this might not be enough. I hear we’ve got more?”

Nile leans forward in her seat. “Actually, yeah.” She pulls out her phone. “I only took screenshots, I didn’t print them out or anything, that felt kind of redundant. But I went through the man’s socials. He’s, uh, he’s kind of a dick.”

“This is nothing new,” at least three people say, or, at least, that’s the point of the jumbled mess of words that come from three different directions.

“Right, but also. Technically, as a councilman, he’s supposed to be exclusively in public service, right? But we’ve got endorsements all over the place, plus some tweets that are definitely more on the legal slander side of opponent-bashing.” Nile slides her phone across the table to Andy and Copley and swipes through her proof. “And some really cryptic things about ‘discovery’ and ‘advancement’ and one mention of ‘new world’, which sounded creepy and cult-ish and I really don’t want to know.”

Copley pats his stack of papers. “I believe that’s all connected to this.”

“Shit, okay, so not cult, just… really illegal medical stuff.” Nile ponders this. “That might be worse, actually.”

Joe says, “Nicky and I went to the university library last week,” and he ignores the flurry of eyebrows that are suddenly wiggling in his direction. “We looked through old council minutes. Knowing what we know now, some of his proposals were definitely trying to slip under the radar for this DRMX company.”

“Very sketchy,” Nile says. “But this sounds like a lot of concrete evidence, doesn’t it? Like, we can do something with this, maybe get him kicked off council, maybe-possibly arrested?”

“I think it would hold up rather well,” says Copley.

“So what’s our next step?” asks Nicky, who has – until this point – been quiet, almost calculating in his ingestion of the information. He’s leaning back in his chair, though, and Nile would assume he’s totally comfortable if not for the sharpness of his eyes.

Andy swipes her thumb across her lips. “I think we need to do this smart. Have a way to bring this information to the public, preferably also the council, without it blowing up in our faces.”

“So, you’re not going to be the one doing it,” Joe concludes. Andy throws him a halfhearted glare. “I’m just saying, if you were faced with the opportunity to boot that fucker from office, you’d get way too enthusiastic about it. Remember the list.”

_“Ass ass smear campaign,”_ whispers Booker. “Wait, isn’t this why we got Copley in the first place? So he can – what’s the word?”

“Schmooze,” says Nile.

Booker snaps at her. “Schmooze. That’s it. He’s the schmoozer.”

“I’m fairly sure that’s not a word,” says Quỳnh.

Andy glances at Copley. “So? Can you do it? Schmooze your way into a resignation?”

Copley looks contemplative, a little doubtful. “I could try. Merrick would view it as quite the betrayal.”

“Yeah, well, he’s sort of a piece of shit, so.”

“That is true. I’ll do my best. Nile, I hate to ask, but I’ll need printouts of your screenshots.”

“For fuck’s sake,” says Nile, but it’s fine. She takes an Oreo.

Joe nudges the package of Oreos towards Copley. “For your trouble.”

“Do I need to put it on my forehead?” Copley eyes them warily. There’s a mixed response of _no!_ and _yes you need to it’s required_ and _we wouldn’t stop you,_ but consensus seems to be _it’s not necessary,_ so he reaches in and takes one.

Quỳnh claps, a final-sounding crack of a noise that splits the air. “This has been invigorating,” she says. “Booker and Joe, I am going to use your game system and you cannot stop me.”

This seems to be a theme, Nile notices, and then she thinks about all the high school group projects that tended to devolve into every student for themselves. This group’s devolution into whatever shenanigans best fits them at the time is eerily similar but significantly more fun. Nicky goes to do the dishes and Joe follows – they talk in possibly-Arabic and Nile catches a few Very Soft Voices – and Booker is vaguely forced back into the living area by Quỳnh and Andy’s collective strength. The TV turns on again; the sink runs and dishes clink together. It’s almost… domestic.

Nile picks up a few of Copley’s sheets. **Towards a better future!** is one of the headings. Beneath it, a list of project names she can’t begin to figure out, things like **trazovatol preminophen** and **HLP3005** and **Lazarus compound**. Some of the names match with her Cryptic Tweets.

She shows Copley the last one. “Isn’t this the guy who came back to life?”

“Ah,” says Copley, face tight. “That was one of the triggers for the ethics hearing. Apparently it was impossible to test on rats because of the differences in physiology between them and humans. And, well, anything that mentions _Lazarus_ and _humans_ in a research context…” he grimaces, and Nile understands.

“And he wants to start this back up again?”

“I believe the new Lazarus Project has been renamed to the Discovery compound. Same purpose, though, and I’d expect the same process.”

Nile shudders. “All his talk about discovery and progress… all we wanted was to not lose our jobs. Guess it’s a good thing we’re really enthusiastic about the funding, if we’re finding all this out.”

“Even without realizing it,” Copley agrees, “you are making this city better.”

There’s a _thump_ from the living area, and Booker is on the floor. Andy and Quỳnh, apparently, are very competitive about their couch space.  
  


* * *

  
They do the pops concert. It goes well enough that all the songs get stuck in her head afterwards. She doesn’t listen to music on the way home and she’s still bopping.

She calls her brother again, tells him all about the insurrection they’re planning.

_“Go for it, oh my God,”_ he says. _“Give it your all. You’re gonna kick his ass, I just know it.”_

He’s always been her best friend.  
  


* * *

  
The day of the council meeting is, as they’ve been calling it, The Big Day. Nile gets three separate texts reminding her of that fact, and two more texts telling her to remind the others, because apparently the only way _some people_ (Joe) will get out of bed is with repeated texts and also maybe a pillow thrown at his face.

Booker: We discovered this after he was late for six rehearsals in a row.

Booker: Two of which I didn’t have to go to, fun fact, which means I got woken up by the alarm completely unnecessarily

Booker: I had to shout at him. The neighbours thought someone was in danger

Booker: He threw socks at me. It was insulting. Also more socks than he has feet, so I don’t know where the others came from. Maybe he keeps socks inside his bed.

Nile is learning _so much_ about these people.

She wears her nicest business casual, works through her jacket collection three times before deciding on one, dusts off the gold hoops that are usually saved for Occasions – and this certainly feels like it qualifies as an Occasion. There’s something so anticipatory about what’s going to happen, and she can’t even imagine it; it’s a freedom and a rebellion all at once, and the nerves are fluttering inside her heart and she feels a bit like she’s preparing for battle.

Who are they to think that they can uproot a rich, arrogant kid and his politics and his disregard for life, in a society made of rich, arrogant people with politics and blatant disregards for life?

But there’s Andy’s steel gaze, and Quỳnh’s poise and intimidation, and Nicky’s sharp concentration and Joe’s passion for life and Booker’s steady backing force. And there’s Nile in it with them, spine straight, head high, ready for anything.

Yeah, they can do this.

Andy, Quỳnh, and Nicky are sitting in the hatchback of Andy’s car when Nile pulls into the city hall lot. “We’re all going in together,” says Quỳnh. “If we squish you might be able to fit in here with us.”

This is partially because _why not_ and partially because it looks like it might rain again. Nile manages to squeeze so she’s half on the car and half on Quỳnh’s thigh, one leg spread across both of Nicky’s to keep her anchored.

“How are you feeling?” Nicky asks.

Nile tips her head against his shoulder. “Like we’re just getting started.”

His chuckle rumbles beneath her head. “I like that.”

“By the way,” says Andy, “Copley’s already here. He went in early. I think to make sure he’ll be able to speak, and also to distance himself a little bit from us. He said something about making sure this was in public interest, rather than just the whims of some struggling musicians? Or, at least, in the eyes of the council.”

“Does the council really think that little of us?” asks Quỳnh. “Shame.”

“I think they don’t care much for people who aren’t, like, oil barons. Or prime profiteers. Except for the arts lady, what’s-her-name, she’s been at a few performances.”

“Excellent. We have one person on our side, the wonderful Lady What’s-Her-Name.”

“Better than nothing,” says Andy, and Quỳnh’s thigh shifts beneath Nile’s, and they’re kind of making out in the cramped trunk.

Nile leans back into Nicky, trying to get away from them. They don’t notice.

Booker’s clown car (affectionately dubbed so by Joe, who apparently earned a week’s worth of cleaning for that particular christening) pulls in a few minutes later. Watching Booker unfold himself from his own passenger seat is still hilarious, even when Nile’s seen it several times. She extricates herself from the trunk to hug Joe and Booker as they approach. Andy gives them the run-down, and then they go.

Maybe Nile’s imagining it, but other patrons are watching them as they move through the public seating area. It’s like in movies, the badass team shot where they’re all walking in time and cool as fuck with epic music in the background. This is slightly hampered by Booker nearly tripping over a chair, but it’s pretty close.

Merrick walks onto the floor, and Nile has never wanted to punch someone on sight more in her life.

(She’s very proud of her restraint. And judging by the way Andy tenses next to her, she’s having the same problem. Solidarity!)

The moderator starts the meeting. The first hour is exclusive to the council, as they go over things like road construction and fireworks bylaws and things that, while peripherally interesting, are not what they’re here for. Then they’re open to public input.

Copley is somewhere in the middle of the line of people. He looks at them, briefly, and nods – a small thing, almost unnoticeable. But he’s with them, and he’s got his stack of evidence and a laptop, and this is happening.

“I have a question I’d like to address to Mr. Merrick,” he says, utterly professional, “regarding your proposal for the transition of the Guard Theatre into a private research facility.”

“Yes,” says Merrick, only vaguely interested in the whole thing. “I believe you advocated for it for a few years, Mr. Copley?”

“It was wrong of me,” says Copley.

Merrick sits up straighter. “What’s your question?” His voice is harder now, nearly spitting.

“Well – see – I wondered what you could say about the fact that your proposed research facility – a subsidiary of Merrick Industries, if I’m not mistaken – will supposedly operate under identical conditions as your recently audited and closed subsidiary DRMX Labs. Which, as you all know, was shut down due to impressive ethics violations.”

Merrick’s mouth opens and then closes again. Nile compares him gleefully to a fish, empty eyes and stagnant frown. “Excuse me?”

“I wondered,” Copley says, picking up steam, “if the rest of the council was aware of your personal stake in the project you have been proposing for the past few years, given that you would receive a net profit of 3 million a year while the research program works its way beneath regulations, possibly harming a good amount of people in the process.”

The room is fluttering. Council members shift in their seats; the press panel looks like they’re having a field day. Merrick is slowly turning into a tomato.

“I have never felt so vindicated in my life,” whispers Andy. She’s holding Quỳnh’s hand, pinched tight between their thighs.

The mayor has taken over the conversation, trying to quell the growing disquiet. “Sir-”

“Copley,” says Copley. “If you are about to accuse me of slander, then I suggest you take a look through this.” He holds up the file – papers transferred to a much more respectable black folder that does not say TOP SECRET on it – and lets it down with a _flump_ onto the podium. “As well, I did you the favor of digitally archiving the source, so I can promise you none of this information is made up.”

“Actually,” Booker whispers, “I did the archiving, but I’d rather not take credit.”

“You continue to astound us, Book,” whispers Joe from Booker’s other side.

“Thank you, Mr. Copley,” the mayor says, in a voice that implies that he doesn’t particularly trust him, but also with an expression that implies he doesn’t really trust Merrick, either, so at least they’ve got a little bit of traction. “I’m sure we can talk about this again after-”

“Now, hold on,” interrupts Merrick, loudly.

“Here we go,” whispers Quỳnh. Nile doesn’t need to look to see the delight in her eyes.

“I don’t think you have any right to come in here and- and _accuse_ my company of these things. This is a personal attack and I will not stand for it.”

Copley lifts the stack of papers again like a threat. He’s smiling, the polite _I-don’t-like-you_ smile reserved for the coldest of moments. They both know what’s in that folder, and they both know it’s damning. “What’s best for the city, right, Mr. Merrick? We agree on that front?”

It’s a challenge, and Merrick will lose either way.

There’s a bit of commotion to Nile’s left, and then Booker leans to whisper to her, “Nicky wants to know if this qualifies as big dick energy.”

“Nicky!” she hisses, and the men erupt into stifled giggles.

The mayor swoops in and collects the files from Copley. _“Thank you, Mr. Copley.”_ The _please step away from the microphone now_ is unspoken but so, so loud. “We will look through these and come to a conclusion at a later date.”

“Please contact me if you have any further questions,” Copley says, and then he goes back to his seat. The room erupts into noise again.

“Holy shit,” says Andy, pointing with her free hand at Merrick. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this angry.”

“This is the best day of my life,” Quỳnh agrees. Perhaps, with she and Andy being the longest-standing members of the orchestra in the group, they had the most to lose; perhaps in that sense, they’ve won the most out of them all.

Nile’s still feeling pretty victorious.

The rest of the meeting can’t quite take the topic away from the potential Merrick scandal. The press is asking about it, nearly swarming the man, and now the audience wants to know if it’s true, too, and eventually the moderator has to shut down the meeting before anything gets out of hand. All through city hall, people are buzzing. They walk out like they’d walked in: as a group, an unstoppable force.

In the parking lot, Andy slings an arm over Nile’s shoulders and hoots.

The others join in with little reluctance, and eventually so does Nile; they sound like a pack of coyotes, maybe, and they’re drawing so much attention but this is a release, a triumph, and Andy’s arm is warm across her shoulders and Nile’s pretty sure Joe and Nicky’s pinkies are interlocked and Booker’s frame doesn’t look so weighed down and Quỳnh might literally be glowing, and Nile breathes and howls and breathes again and the air is crisp in her lungs and the world, _oh, the world,_ it’ll be all right in the end.

Copley finds them a few minutes later. “I’d say that was relatively successful,” he says. There’s a tentative air of adrenaline about him, too, like he’s never done something like this before and the rush is pulling him in, hand over hand. “We’ll need to wait on the results, however. In all cases except an extremely insistent press, they’ll most likely review the files privately and announce the decision afterwards. One week, maybe two.”

“And then we’ll know for sure whether this shitstorm has actually benefitted us?” Booker says.

“Correct. I’ll keep my eyes open, but I doubt they’ll contact me again. No matter.” Copley shrugs, and then he gives them all an expression of secret elation. “That was kind of fun, wasn’t it?”

“Nicky,” says Nile, “you were absolutely right, it does qualify.”

“Yes!” Nicky says. “I am getting it!”

Andy, Quỳnh, and Copley exchange looks. “We’ll never know,” Andy says, sagely.  
  


* * *

  
The theatre is buzzing at the next rehearsal. It sounds like while everyone knows _something_ is going on, no one knows it was them. Which is nice. Nile doesn’t particularly want to be hoarded by people.

Nicky reports on break that even the stage crew is talking about it. “I think it is good publicity,” he says. “The more of us that want to keep the theatre, the more trouble Merrick and others might have with getting rid of it.”

“That is true,” Joe says, as though Nicky is the wisest man on Earth.

Andy, for the most part, seems content to sit back and watch from her somewhat-curated image of aloof, intimidating concertmaster. Her violin sounds richer, somehow, like she’s taking the energy and throwing it wholeheartedly into her playing, heating it up, tossing it over the rest of them. Prince compliments the orchestra on their renewed drive. Maybe, faced with a very real product of the uncertainty they’ve been feeling, the only direction to go is up.

Also, the horns have a few fantastic lines. Booker grins at her over his lead pipe and says, “I told you we’d have good stuff.”

“I trusted you,” Nile says, and, huh, she really did, didn’t she?

Booker flushes, then takes a drink from his not-water bottle. He offers it to her. She refuses, drinks her coffee.

The world goes on as it should.  
  


* * *

  
Sunday afternoon, the 22nd, and it sounds like Nile’s front door is about to be brought down in a reckoning against all front doors. Alternatively, it is being knocked on by four different fists.

Nile checks through the peekhole just to be sure – even though the last three times this has happened, it’s been either Joe or Andy – and throws the deadbolt. The door is barely open before Andy’s shoving her way inside, followed by Quỳnh, then Booker, then Joe, then Nicky, all in a big line. “Press release in half an hour,” Andy says, by way of greeting.

“Cool,” says Nile. “May I ask, _why here?”_

“Keeps you on your toes,” says Quỳnh. “You never know what might come of this.”

“I have no food. Today was grocery shopping day.”

“Then we will pay for your takeout,” Joe says. “Or your groceries. Or both. Consider it an apology for our imposition.”

Nile concedes. “At least you’re nice about it.”

Andy has brought with her a radio, one of those mid-2000s boom-box-shaped things with a handle and an antenna and a cassette deck. She thuds it down on the coffee table and hunts for a plugin for five minutes before Nile gives up and moves the impeding chair slightly to the left so she can see it.

“About the food,” Nicky says, shaking the grocery bag he carries. “I have brought us chocolate. It can be either for celebration or commiseration, whichever the result happens to be.”

Nile opens her fridge, stares inside like it’ll tell her something she doesn’t already know. “How about tea? Or cider, I have that, too. The alcoholic kind.”

The others relay some drink orders. She puts on the kettle. They’ve arranged themselves on the floor around the coffee table, leaving the lone chair empty for Nile. She passes out a few ciders, pours tea for herself and Joe, taking the opportunity to use the nice mugs she only uses when her mom visits. They’re handmade, a bird on each one – a sitting, magnificent cardinal on hers, an oriole mid-flight on Joe’s.

He runs his thumb over the artwork. “This is extraordinary.”

“That one’s my mom’s,” she says, dropping into her chair. “My brother and I, we each had one, too. Mom gave me hers when I moved out as a promise that she’d still be with me, you know? And now when she comes over I get a piece of childhood with it.”

Joe frowns reverently. “I can’t – this has so much significance, and you’re letting me drink from it?”

“Family exists in multiple forms,” Nile says, and she drinks her tea.

The resulting look is so fond the tea almost gets caught in her throat. She notices that Joe keeps a tight hold on the mug after that, apparently afraid to even jostle it too hard.

Fifteen minutes. Andy switches on the radio and messes with the static until she reaches a real station. They jam out to ABBA for a few minutes, then –

“Shut up, everyone,” says Quỳnh, and they all lean in.

_“-live from city hall, Mayor Stewart, regarding the recent events from our last public committee meeting.”_

_“Thank you. As we all know, these past two weeks have caused quite a commotion among our council and among our city. Allegations raised by a member of the public against councilman Merrick’s private business endeavors have been under review for a number of days as we try to understand just what it is we have been shown. And the results, I’m afraid, do not look good.”_

The beginnings of success start to pool beneath Nile’s ribs.

_“What we have found matches the accusations given by said constituent at the council meeting, as far as can be investigated: Merrick Industries and its proposed new branch, as an experimental, research, and pharmaceutical company, has been steadily re-appropriating the projects of recently shut-down DRMX Labs, projects that were in direct opposition to all ethics, practice, and safety regulations. Regardless of the pursuit of scientific progress, we are humanity, and we must continue in a humane, respectful manner. I cannot allow these projects to move forward, nor can I allow Merrick Industries to continue its expansion into our city._

_“As of recently, councilman Merrick has been advocating for a motion that will transform some of the city’s valued art buildings into science centres. Given our recent discoveries, all motions will be dissolved, and the proposed centres will be reviewed heavily. The council has, additionally, requested an emergency municipal election for the constituents of councilman Merrick’s ward. I would like to officially announce a snap election to be held on the fourth of January for Ward Twelve. The nomination cutoff date will be December fourth. I admit we have never had a situation like this before. But, as is democracy, the choice is in your hands.”_

Andy shuts off the radio.

They process for a moment.

Then, with a little bit of a hysterical edge, Andy starts to laugh. It sounds a bit like she’s about to cry, and maybe she is, but Quỳnh starts to laugh too, and something about the combination of relief and triumph makes it impossible to stop. They laugh and they laugh and they cry and there’s a little bit more hooting involved. Andy reaches into the middle over the radio, and Booker gets there first and grabs her hand, and Nile puts her hand in too, disregarding the way Joe’s shoulder digs into her ribs, and with careful thought given to the special mugs, they all end up in a pile on the ground, kind of laughing and kind of crying and mostly just _fucking elated._

Andy’s phone rings. _“You did it,”_ says Copley.

“We did it,” Andy agrees.

_“Congratulations to you all. I can’t think of a better way for the theatre to be populated than with you six inside, making music.”_

“Sap,” says Joe, who is definitely crying. “Do you still have your job?”

Copley laughs. _“I’ve been on thin ice since the council meeting, but given that there is still a theatre with an arts program to be run, I think I’m safe for now.”_

“And so are we,” says Nicky.

_“And so are you.”_

“Oh my God we’re safe,” says Nile. “Like, actually, honest-to-God safe. The theatre’s not gonna turn into a human experiment lab.”

Booker holds his cider aloft. “I’ll drink to that.”

The night reminds Nile of the first planning night, with the whiteboard and _Ass ass smear campaign_ and Andy shouting over Amadeus. This time it’s Plus Nicky, and they’ve got enough people for an even-number split, so Nile brings out her small collection of board games and they play until eight o’clock when someone realizes that they’re all incredibly hungry. True to Joe’s word, they all pitch in to order a collection of bento boxes, and also a cake. A grocery store cake, sure, but a real cake. Nicky pulls off all the blue icing flowers and repurposes the icing into tiny letters that say CONGRATULATION.

“There’s not enough for an S,” he bemoans, but Nile thinks it’s the best cake she’s ever seen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> things i looked up while writing:  
> \- does percussion have a section lead  
> \- can orchestra women wear pants yet  
> \- average size of a prestigious orchestra  
> \- average size of a prestigious orchestra's violin section  
> \- art festivals in chicago  
> \- types of donuts  
> \- oreo face challenge fastest time  
> \- do professional musicians use folders or binders
> 
> things i did not look up:  
> \- anything at all about city council proceedings, sketchy labs, municipal governance, or really any government scandal at all
> 
> this is what commitment to accuracy looks like, y'all


	5. December

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holidays pass. Theaters get (legally) broken into. Stars burst into existence. The world goes on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the soundtrack for this chapter is [Winter is Passing](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CXWaLtxyC5w) by Luluc and [More than Life](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wkrIvVUAO-I) by Whitley because I think they both encapsulate the winter homeliness that this last 3k words are all about. it's such a soft chapter

Their last rehearsal before their Christmas showcase, halfway home, Nile realizes that she left her music folder on the table backstage.

What follows is a jumble of thoughts that mainly sort into categories of _fuck_ and _can I get back before Nicky locks up for the night_ and _where’s the next place I can u-turn on this road._ It wouldn’t normally be a problem, except this was going to be a week of diligent practice, damn it, and without her music it’s not at all diligent.

Never mind that it’s all Christmas music, and there’s only so much variation you can get in _O Holy Night._ If nothing else, she’s going to end fall season with a performance to be extra proud of.

She hits the turn signal and pulls onto a side street, determined to make it back to the theatre before it’s too late.

It’s not too late. She gives a hurried hello to the security at the backstage door, nearly running as she makes her way through the halls and dressing rooms to get to the rehearsal room. There, on the table where she left it – black leather, F HORN, haphazardly stuffed with music, her good pencil, a few stickynotes, and a sketch Joe had given her one day at break. Thank God.

She tucks it under her arm and heads back out of the room. Quiet voices float down the hall. One of them sounds like Nicky, and Nile didn’t get a chance to say goodbye to him today, so she backs up and peers down the hallway. Nicky’s office door is open, and light is spilling out onto the floor.

“Just another week, _tesoro,_ and you will be able to profess your love from the skies if you so wish.”

Nile rounds into the doorway with partial curiosity, sees Nicky and Joe across the desk in the middle of a kiss, and chokes. They look like they’ve forgotten the rest of the world exists, and, _oh,_ that’s not a first-kiss kind of moment, that’s a millionth-kiss kind of moment.

She throws herself back around the corner to avoid being noticed. The motion flings her braids to the side and they smack audibly against the wall. One of them knocks her in the jaw. The mental conspiracy board is back in full force.

“…Nile?”

_“Shit,”_ she whispers fervently. She emerges slowly; Nicky and Joe have broken apart and are back on their feet, but Joe’s hand is on Nicky’s elbow, and he’s got that gooey-soft look in his eyes that Nile had caught at her apartment on plan day. He’s chortling.

Nicky is too, actually. They both look like they’ve been caught making out in a closet, which, close enough. “You forgot your folder,” he says, gesturing at the folder beneath Nile’s arm. “I assume that’s why you’re back.”

“Yeah,” says Nile. “I, uh, just came to say bye.”

“You cannot tell anyone about this,” Joe says. He points at Nile with his free hand, then between himself and Nicky. “Very important. This is a secret until further notice.”

“Why? Everyone’s pushing for you two. They’re gonna be over the moon.”

“Reasons,” Nicky says gravely. “You will find out.”

Nile tilts her head and frowns. “That’s not ominous at all.”

His resulting grin is a little sharp. Nile has come to know that expression as crafty, like he’s planning something, and if Nicky – professionally organized and hypercompetent stage manager – is planning something, then Nile will Do Her Part and Otherwise Not Get Involved.

“Well, uh,” she says, “congratulations, I guess. See you Friday?”

“See you Friday,” Joe says. He waves, cheerful.

Nile’s faith in humanity is sort of renewed as she leaves the office again, so she shouts over her shoulder, _“Use protection!”_

Someone barks out a laugh at that. Nile gets home and finds the smile hasn’t yet left her face.  
  


* * *

  
“Before you ask,” Nicky says, sorting through his key ring, “this may be frowned upon in my job description and technically very unprofessional, but it is not illegal.”

It’s dark, because the sun goes down early these days, and the six of them are shivering in a circle just outside the Guard’s stage doors as Nicky deals with their Assuredly Not Illegal break-in. Nile’s been back in town for three days; she’d spent Christmas with her family in Chicago, where she got to chat with her mom for hours and play video games with her brother and visit her dad’s grave. It was a recharge, something she’d needed desperately, and now –

“Okay, good to go,” says Nicky, and he holds the door open with a foot as the rest of them stumble into the warmth of the theatre. The lights flicker on. The rest of the hallway is shrouded in darkness, like tunnels to the unknown.

Nile sheds her jacket and drapes it over her arm. “This is spooky. I feel like there should be some high strings _wee-wee-wee_ -ing in our background.”

“It would be the ominous low stuff first,” says Quỳnh. “We’re not yet about to be jumped.”

“No one is going to be jumped,” Nicky kindly reminds them all. He goes first down the dark hallway, because he’s the only one who actively knows where the light switches are, as opposed to the others who have never needed to use them.

“Unless this is a _Clue_ -type situation, and someone is about to turn on us all. I vote Booker, in the rehearsal room, with one of those fuzzy trees he uses for his mouthpiece,” says Joe.

Booker frowns. “Why me? Also, I’ll have you know that those brushes can be dangerous.”

“Very poky,” Nile agrees.

“Joe, concrete backstage, poison via rosin,” says Andy.

Joe clutches his chest. “Andromache, I am appalled that you would think I’ve lured you all here just to kill you.”

“I think it’s very in-character,” Quỳnh says. “Worse things have happened.”

They follow Nicky like a trail of ducklings to the stage. Nicky heaves open the giant stage doors and they’re met with the yawning, open blackness of empty stage and open ceiling.

“One second,” he says, and he disappears into the shadows.

They wait a beat. “Nicky, stage, one by one with some sniper shots before any of us even knows what’s going on,” says Booker.

“Incorrect!” Nicky shouts. His voice echoes out from the dark. “I would not kill you on the stage. It would be messy and I would have to clean it up.”

The lights come on with a few mechanical _chunk_ s. The stage is clear, empty, almost shining.

“There you have it,” says Quỳnh. “The only thing stopping Nicky from killing us all is the mess it would make. Nicky, perhaps you should consider poison.”

Nicky emerges from behind the organ bench as they scatter on the empty stage. There’s so much room, now that there’s not a setup for a forty-piece orchestra, and Quỳnh spends a few moments replicating the _Sound of Music_ spin until she’s caught by Andy. Joe sets down their canvas bag of collected items and unfurls a large picnic blanket – so they don’t dirty the stage, _this is a sacred space_ – right in the center.

Nile stands at the lip of the stage, staring out into the bare audience.

“Fun fact,” says Booker, coming to stand next to her, bumping her lightly on the shoulder. “Andy had you pegged from the audition.”

The dark chairs call to her, somehow. She doesn’t move her gaze; everything is soft, contemplational. “What?”

“She knew you’d be important. She was right.”

Nile tears herself away from the audience and looks up at Booker. He’s nodding, thoughtful, sleeves rolled and standing steady on her left. Familiar, like it always is now.

“You’re all lucky I took the job, then,” she says, and the corners of his eyes scrunch up into a smile.

“Wasn’t much of a debate, though, was it,” says Andy, soundlessly appearing on her other side. Nile does not jump. She _doesn’t._

But also, Andy’s right, and Andy knows she’s right. She claps Nile on the back of the neck and motions toward the facsimile of a picnic the others have set up in the middle of the stage. Joe’s setting out wrapped sandwiches and plastic soda bottles, like this is lunch instead of dinner, and something inside the bag still rattles ominously. Nile’s stomach gurgles. So they make a circle, careful to stay on the blanket, and sit.

Nicky flumps himself directly onto Joe’s lap. “Before we start, I would like to announce that Quỳnh owes us a hundred dollars.”

“Oh?” says Booker, and Nile starts to grin, and Andy says, “Quỳnh, _our money.”_

“Like you haven’t bet away more on very stupid things, Andromache,” says Quỳnh.

“I was unaware of any bets,” says Booker. “What’s going on?”

“Quỳnh believed we were unable to keep secrets,” Joe says. “I believe we have soundly proven her wrong, and we might even deserve extra money for being so convincing in our act of being apart. And for the emotional damage that came from my inability to be close to the man I adore.”

Booker still looks confused, so Nicky twists in Joe’s lap and they kiss, the same millionth-kiss Nile had seen in the office a few weeks ago. The bubble of delight growing in her is absolutely worth the confused silence she’d submitted to since that interaction, if only to see the look on Andy’s face as she realizes she’s been fooled.

Andy throws her sandwich at them and they break apart, cackling. “You motherfuckers. How long?”

“Since June,” Nicky says gleefully, and he dodges the next thing thrown at him, which is Andy’s shoe. “Andy, we particularly appreciated all your attempts to lock us in closets together. Very good for the soul. And the sex.”

“I swear to fucking god, you heathens let me believe – let me abandon all sense of diplomacy – I was giving you covert date ideas _for six months-_ ”

Booker blows out a breath upon which many French curses are floating. “I almost yelled at you so many times and you would have laughed at me.”

“We would have,” Joe agrees.

“The fucking _socks,”_ Booker says. “If you tell me that Nicky’s been secretly sleeping over-”

“I will not tell you that,” Joe says diligently, in the tone of voice which means it absolutely did happen.

_“Que diable,_ what the fuck, one, _how,_ two, _how did I not notice,_ three, _how did you get in our fucking house.”_

Nicky rubs the back of his neck. “I am getting adept at climbing through windows.”

“I cannot believe you both. And this is all for a hundred dollars?”

“And our integrity,” Joe confirms. “There is no motivation greater than proving someone wrong.”

_“…bullshit,”_ Andy seethes, mostly at herself. Quỳnh pats her hand lightly. “Wait, so, Quỳnh-”

“Found us after the giant strike the end of last season,” Joe says. “We all know how emotions run high at the end of the season. It was only reasonable. Much like how Nile found us, I’d imagine, except fresher. And with a little less clothing involved.”

Andy, Booker, and Quỳnh all zero in on Nile. “You _knew?”_

The varying levels of betrayal on their faces is the last straw; Nile starts laughing and she can’t stop until she’s wheezing. Nicky and Joe are cackling again. They’re likely far too proud of this whole thing, and she can’t even blame them.

And she knows it’s okay, because Andy’s fighting back a smile and Quỳnh is reaching for her wallet and Booker shakes his head with that same fond-but-angry-about-it look she’d first seen around the third time Andy had fucked with him over break, the kind of expression that’s reserved for people who have cemented places in his little family, people that won’t ever budge, annoyingly constant, lovingly so.

Joe pulls a twenty from the stack of cash Quỳnh hands to him and tries to toss it to Nile. It flutters and lands instead on his feet. “For keeping it quiet,” he says.

She takes the bill with a raised eyebrow. “You’re making it sound like you paid me to keep my mouth shut.”

“Is that not what this is?”

“I would like the record to state that I didn’t talk of my own accord, thank you very much. I have honor, you know.” She folds it up anyway, sticks it in her back pocket. Maybe she’ll use it on the nice tea she’s been eyeing at the independent shop downtown; it’ll be like a gift from them.

Andy snaps and then makes grabby-hands at the sandwich she just threw at the men. “Okay. We will be talking about this at a later date, but in the meantime.”

“I don’t think I shall give it to you,” says Nicky, holding the sandwich between his back and Joe’s chest.

Andy tackles them.

“You know,” says Booker, happily munching, “it’s been like this the whole time I’ve known them and somehow it’s still funny.”

Nile watches as Andy resurfaces triumphantly with the sandwich, only to have it snatched away again.

“Yeah,” she agrees. “It is.”

Quỳnh scoots over to join them. “You will never again be tired when we are all together,” she says, “I guarantee it.”

After they’ve all calmed down and finished dinner (Andy is missing a sock, Nicky’s forearms look like he got in a fight with a cat, and Joe is still slightly wheezing from getting hit by no less than three errant elbows) it all settles into a vibe that’s almost homely.

The ominous rattling from earlier was actually a container of homemade donuts knocking against two jars, one with caramel sauce and one with chocolate, which Nicky warns them extensively not to spill as he pulls them out. Even if the donuts weren’t intended as a peace offering, Andy immediately forgives Nicky for “all past transgressions” – namely the sandwich debacle – and eats five.

“All right, here’s some news for you,” says Joe. “Merrick’s going up against a few no-names on the fourth, but I looked into ‘em and they’re all miles ahead of him in terms of, you know, actual ethics, so I think he’s probably toast.”

Andy whoops. “Fucking _eat it,_ Steve.”

“Hell yeah,” Nile says. “I’ll be glad to not hear that name again.”

“You are not the only one,” says Nicky. “We saw him at the market last week. I had to distract Joe before he went and punched him.”

“It would have been so satisfying,” Joe grouses.

Nicky nods, bonking their heads together lightly. “Of course it would have been. But I do not put it past him to call assault and press charges, and that is something we do not need happening. Especially not to you, my heart.”

“Oh,” says Booker, “oh no, you’re going to be That Couple, aren’t you. _Merde du cul_. I’m going to wish you were still fake-pining, and we all know how many times I almost snapped during the fake-pining.”

Nile grabs a donut, rips it in half, and dips each half into one jar. “Least you don’t have to run away from each other to risk exposing yourselves this time around.”

Joe looks appropriately embarrassed. “That did happen, didn’t it.”

“There are so many things I’m never letting you forget,” she says. This is her chance to be the annoying little sibling for once in her life, and there’s no way she’s passing it up. What a thrill! She recognizes the look in Joe’s eyes because it’s the look she gives her little brother, and something in her chest just _melts._

Andy is feeding Quỳnh half of her seventh donut, which would fall into the _grossly in love_ category if not for Quỳnh snapping at Andy’s hand like a shark. “February is cinema series,” she says between bites, voice disproportionately level. “Nile, you said you were looking forward to it.”

“Cinema series is easily the best concert of the season,” Booker agrees.

Nile wiggles her shoulders. “Is it just the popular scores or do we get some obscure and very cool stuff, too?”

“We got _Lost in Space_ last year, if that counts.”

“Like, the new one?”

Andy’s hand pauses and Quỳnh nearly bites it. “There’s a new one?”

“Yeah, it’s got the gay pirate from _Black Sails_ except American and with massive dad energy, and the horn lines are incredible.”

“Were there not multiple gay pirates in _Black Sails?”_ asks Nicky, and the conversation is steered towards all things Gay and Pirate and gets stuck there for at least fifteen minutes. It modulates briefly through ghost stories and conspiracy theories, with a particular cadenza on the Bermuda Triangle, before flipping gears completely to home decoration.

“I still think you need more plants,” Joe says to Andy and Quỳnh. “There’s so much space and nothing in your house and it’s starting to look like one of those ultra-modern suburban family homes.”

“How dare you say such things,” Andy deadpans. “You’ve seen the basement.”

“You mean, I got lost in there and you didn’t come find me for three hours.”

She shrugs. “It’s not my fault you don’t know how to navigate.”

“We have no plants because the kids will eat them,” Quỳnh says. “We tried. It was messy.”

Again with _the kids,_ and it’s been four months and Nile _still_ doesn’t know anything about them, other than they’re perpetually hungry and messy and _most likely_ not human children.

“Everything is messy with them,” says Booker. “This is a fact and should be remembered as such.”

“We have managed to train them to shit in the shit corner,” Andy says proudly. Quỳnh sucks her lips into her mouth and shakes her head when Andy isn’t looking. Nile imagines it: loving your wife so much you’ll secretly pick up errant shit so that she’ll feel good about house-training a still-formless creature. _I loved her to the point of creation,_ her mind supplies, that quote from the rubber-gloves guy. She understands it, looking at them.

Her confusion about the kids thing must still be on her face, because Booker leans sideways and shows her his phone.

She looks from the screen to Andy and Quỳnh, and back to the screen, which shows a picture of Quỳnh and two small animals, one white and one brown, with chopped rainbow pool noodles over their horns – “Your children are _goats?”_

“I thought it was obvious?” Andy says, eyebrows furrowed.

“No! I thought they were cats! Or something, you know, _normal!_ Oh my God, because goats are kids, holy shit, I’m going to commit a murder.”

Andy and Quỳnh are very pleased about this. It’s probably karma from the Joe and Nicky thing.

The lights are off and they are in complete darkness, lying in a circle on the stage, heads together and legs out in a halo, jackets serving as makeshift pillows. Nicky has disappeared to go fiddle with something technical and there is a perfect him-shaped space right between Joe and Nile.

Booker, on Nile’s other side, sounds a bit like he might be snoring, and honestly, she wouldn’t put it past him to be actually asleep.

“It’s almost the new year,” Quỳnh says quietly, so quietly, as though the darkness demands silence. “I am happy with how this is ending.”

“Me too,” says Joe. The affection in his voice is sweet and exceedingly clear.

“Kicked ass for another twelve months,” Andy says, “that’s a win.”

Fabric rustles, and Booker – not asleep, apparently – says, “It’s been good.” And Nile’s pretty sure he means it.

“Yeah,” she says, and she means it, too. “It’s been good.”

The stars appear slowly. For a moment, Nile thinks they’re just vision floaties, tries to blink them out. But she focuses more and realizes that this is Nicky, pulling up the levels for certain lights just enough to be slightly visible, dotting the black of the ceiling like little bits of a stage-crafted universe.

Nicky re-appears a minute later, and he settles down into place between Nile and Joe. “It is too cold to stargaze for real,” he says. “I thought this a fitting alternative.”

“It’s perfect,” says Joe.

He’s right. It’s stage lights, but it’s also the glow stars in her apartment, the constellations she’d tracked when she was twelve and learning about the night sky. Each place a home, with memories and flaws and emotions and people that match them. Nile’s got the excitement for tomorrow already roaring in her lungs, enthusiasm for the things they’ll take on next, everything they’ll tackle and conquer and improve.

There’s so much she can’t wait for. So many things she wants to do.

The lights, despite their dimness, are giving the room just enough ambient light that when Nile turns her head, she can see the silhouettes of Nicky and Booker, each enveloped in their own worlds as well, and beyond them, the presences of Andy and Quỳnh and Joe. All six of them on the floor of the Guard stage, existing. Alone and together all at once.

She loves them. When did that happen? Maybe it’s been a long time coming. Maybe they trial-by-fired her, or maybe she wormed her way in and stayed, stuck, stubbornly refusing to let go. It doesn’t matter, anyway. The air is chilled and all around her are the soft sounds of breathing: another family to grow with. The newest set of life’s adventures.

She thinks of the Nile who lingered in her seat at the end of her very first rehearsal, confident in her skills yet hesitant in the busy room, wondering what in the hell was going to come next. _You’re going to have so much fun,_ she tells that version of herself; _I promise you, these months will be good._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shoutout to thirdspinsterfromtheleft for guessing the identities of the mysterious kids, and to lasgalendil for calling joe & nicky's Ultimate Deception! both comments made me immeasurably happy and i've been so excited to confirm your predictions :^)
> 
> this was such a fun little story! i love the whole lovingly-bickering-found-family dynamic and hell if that isn't exactly what this crew is. and it shoved my fanfiction chops back at me so i am incredibly grateful. also i namedrop the lost in space reboot and everything said is 100% correct. amazing soundtrack. toby stephens with the hardest dad energy in the world. subplot of will robinson accidentally collecting more and more parents. it's an awesome show so go watch it if you're into that kind of thing. 
> 
> thanks for reading! let me know what you thought! <3

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is already complete! Expect a regular update every two days. 
> 
> As always, let me know how it goes!
> 
> [this is my tumblr](https://impalahallows.tumblr.com%22), it has some more writing in a tag somewhere, and you can come say hi!


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